Poetry

It’s been a long, slow slide
To the depths of her soul
God, I wish I knew the point where she lost control
She moves slowly, she opens the blind
She looks out from her window, god knows what she will find
She listens for sounds of distant conversations
She has a memory of a time and place
But no consciousness of where she is now
She reads poetry she wrote long ago
She keeps words deep under the floor
She talks of secrets and desires,
Of triumphs and of falls
She bathes in pools of her reflection
She sees children in the dark
She waits for something she’s not sure of
Some kind of spark
Some kind of life that’s not hers
Some kind of something else
She’s a hundred million miles away
She writes poetry of places she’s been
She paints words all over the wall
She waits for something to enfold her
But she always needs more
Some kind of life that’s not her
Some kind of something else
On the centre of the mantle is a tiny wooden box
And she opens it so slowly and she sees all she has lost
It’s the only thing he gave her and she holds it in her hand
It’s a twisted, shattered, damaged broken heart